Star Trek: Civil War
by Mike Sumner
Summary: This story begins about fifteen years after the events in Nemesis (why? well, Nemesis came out in 2002, it is 2016 as I write this, about fifteen years later, so the older actors/characters would have aged appropriately) and will include older characters, in a limited role, from TNG, DS9, and Voyager. The story will center on a new crew of younger, fresher characters.
1. Backstory

Authors notes:

This story begins about fifteen years after the events in Nemesis (why? well, Nemesis came out in 2002, it is 2016 as I write this, about fifteen years later, so the older actors/characters would have aged appropriately) and will include older characters from TNG, DS9, and Voyager. A little backstory to fill in the missing years.

Backstory:

After the death of Shinzon in 2379 (in "Nemesis"), the Romulan Empire fell into chaos and civil war. There were three competing factions: the traditionalists, the fundamentalists, and the Tal Shiar. The Tal Shiar controlled a bulk of the Romulan military at the time, and they refrained from open combat during the war. Instead, they waited to see which of the two factions would win, then announced their support for that faction. The traditionalists were former members of the old empire - senate members, military leaders, the aristocracy, etc... and their goal was to restore the Empire to its formal glory and power. The fundamentalists were mostly the lower class, the spiritual leaders, the middle class merchants, etc... and their goal was peace, and to return to a simpler (aka logical) lifestyle. To this aim, the fundamentalists formed a pact with Vulcan to support their efforts. The particulars of the war are irrelevant. The fundamentalists, with the help of the Vulcans (and the Federation, through the Vulcans), won the civil war in 2380.

In 2381, two years after Nemesis, the newly formed Romulan Republic joined the Federation at the behest of the Vulcans (it was logical - the Klingons were threatening conquest of the weakened Romulan military and the Federation offered protection). The Romulan military remained an independent force under the direct command of the Federation Council. In addition, select members of the Romulan Republic (in reality, they were all former Tal Shiar officers) were placed on the Federation Council and, most importantly, on the Security Council and the Intelligence Council (the highest ranking officers in the former Tal Shiar). At the threat of violence, the Klingons agreed to place their military under the direct command of the Federation Council, a move that allowed the Federation to command three massive military fleets; the Romulan fleet, the Klingon fleet, and Star Fleet. The Ferengi joined the Federation in 2385 and contrived a newly formed Economic Council led by prominent members of the former Ferengi Alliance. With the Cardassians not yet recovered from the Dominion war and the Borg destroyed, this left the Federation as the only major military and political force in the known galaxy.

From 2385 to 2394 ("present day"), the Federation slowly became bloated, apathetic, and corrupt. Without a real enemy, a genuine threat to the peace, the apathy and corruption consumed all. A few prominent members fought against this, but they were quietly swarmed by the masses and were removed. The contriving political battles spread like a cancer and infected even the noblest of peoples, and they played simply as a means of survival. The newly formed Economic Council was able to pass laws allowing for the exploitation of natural resources on all Federation planets. This led to class. It introduced, for the first time in the Federation, a currency. Some people prospered, most did not. The highest ranking members of the Federation lived a gluttonous lifestyle filled with lavish parties and rare delicacies from all over the galaxy. Many in the Federation are discontent yet lacked the capacity to make any real change. And now, there is a new threat. A young threat. Will the Federation see it in time? Will the Federation survive? This is where our story begins.


	2. Chapter 1: A New Threat

Beyn stood on the ridge top looking up at the night sky. The sky had a purple hue with a large, purple-lit moon hanging just above the eastern horizon, perhaps twice as large as the moon back home on Fenmar. The light was so bright it blocked out all the stars. It bothered him he could not see his home star, though he knew it was over 600 light years away and what he would see, if he could see it, would be from a time when his people still lived in wooden huts. He shuddered. The phaser burn on his right shoulder ached. He stretched the muscles to ease the pain. The blood had dried and crusted over the wound, and at his movement the wound cracked open and blood leaked down his arm. He sighed and looked at the valley below. There were large fern trees with leaves nearly 50 meters long, each one radiating a florescent green glow in the purple moonlight. A breeze burst through the valley forcing the fern leaves to swing like the wings of giants birds caught in a vicious trap. He found the scene strikingly beautiful. The crunch of boots on gravel behind him centered his thoughts.

"We have gained the control room, Mylar," the man said. "and all Star Fleet are dead. Komar believes we will have the computer core downloaded in about 5 minutes."

He nodded slightly, still facing the valley. "Do we have casualty numbers yet?" he asked. There was a long pause. He turned his head to look at the man over his right shoulder. "Ashmar?"

"Yes," Ashmar said as he lowered his eyes. "Nineteen."

Beyn turned back to the valley and closed his eyes. "Nineteen too many," he thought. He sighed, and opened his eyes again. The breeze had died and the fern leaves were once again still. The birds have been freed. "Thank you, Ashmar," he said. He looked at the transponder monitor on his wrist. "We jump in 18 minutes. Make sure we have that core downloaded." The crunch of boots on gravel indicated Ashmar had turned back to the compound, then there was silence. Beyn turned and saw Ashmar standing a few feet away, his back to him. He was standing looking at the compound. The area around the whitewashed walls were clear of vegetation for 100 meters, surrounded first by concrete and then gravel. On this side of the compound the edge of the gravel ended at the ridge. The place was devoid of life.

"Do you think they knew we were coming?" Ashmar asked.

"Yes," Beyn said after a pause. The Star Fleet security force fired the moment they jumped.

"We will find the traitor."

"Yes."

"And he will die."

Beyn walked over and placed his hand on Ashmar's right shoulder. "But first, we must get home. I will go help Komar. Check the dead. Make sure each has a valid transponder. We will not leave any behind. This traitor will eat their flesh before he dies. But first, we must get home."

He watched Ashmar walk to the right of the compound to where they had jumped 45 minutes ago. Some were dead there, he knew, but not how many. The rush had been frantic. He walked down the ridge, off the gravel onto the concrete, and into the compound through the shattered door. Two Star Fleet lied dead on the floor just inside, both killed by the thermoblast detonation. One was missing his face, the other part of his chest. The second one was just a boy. He stepped over their bodies and walked down the corridor. The walls were tan and white, plain and unadorned. The ribbing of the bulkhead ran down the corridor giving an unnatural support to the roof. Perhaps they expected an arial attack? At the junction, down the corridor on the left, were three more Star Fleet killed, all dead from disruptor blasts. The fighting had been hardest here, with a dozen men armed with phaser rifles using the tritanium bulkheads for protection. It took nearly 20 minutes to clear them. The control room was down the right corridor, and he turned down that way stepping over several dead bodies, some of his own men. "Death is such and ugly thing," he thought as he stepped into the control room. A thick smoke hung high in the air, clinging to the roof of the round room like a rolling fog. The air was heavy and it made him cough. Several Star Fleet lied dead on the floor, their blood pooling in the crevices. At least he didn't see any of his own men. "Komar, what news have you?" he asked.

Komar was on the other side of the room, about 30 feet away, on all fours peering underneath a computer terminal. He lifted his head and looked at Beyn. "It is not well, Mylar," he said. "The computer core is fused, I think. These damn fools must have done it to stop us. I can't download anything. I sent Masin and Borah down there to try and break the core loose. Not good, I'm afraid."

"Can they break the bonds?" Beyn asked.

"Sure, but the plan was not to jump with the entire computer core." Komar stood.

"We will have to improvise. Pull a stasis field from one of the torpedoes, then attach the core to one of our dead for the jump."

Komar hung his head for a moment, then looked back at Beyn. "That seems a little heartless, Mylar. Surely one of us can jump with it."

"No, it has to be one of them. They know their duty, knew there duty. It is their part. Think little of it." Komar nodded, waving his hand. Beyn looked at his transponder monitor. "We jump in 13 minutes." Komar nodded again. He lifted a receiver to his mouth and voiced the Mylar's orders.

Back in the corridor, Beyn saw the leg of a brown uniform underneath a dead Star Fleet. He pushed the Star Fleet man off. Underneath was Joyn, his third cousin, the brown uniform stained with the red blood of the four Star Fleet lying around him. "Poor, Joyn," he thought, "I will surely miss you." He picked him up and carried him to the jump point. Ashmar was there lining up the others in a row. He took Joyn from Beyn and gently rested him on the ground next to the others. He spoke some words but Beyn could not hear. A prayer of some kind. Ashmar was very pious. Thirteen dead present, he counted, six more to go.

"The rest are outside the generator," Ashmar said.

Beyn nodded and the two of them walked around the left side of the compound wall, past the shattered door with the two dead Star Fleet, around the corner, and through a thermoblast hole in the wall. The six dead here were badly damaged, some in pieces. Ashmar looked at Beyn.

"They used some kind of thermal grenade. Lalonod jumped on it to save us, but it blew through him and killed these others too. A very vicious weapon."

Beyn nodded in agreement and began moving the bodies out. Komar was loading the computer core onto one of the bodies lying on the ground near the jump point. Beyn asked him to attach the stasis field to Joyn. He nodded in silent agreement. Joyn was a hero. He deserved the honor.

Three minutes later, the group of them - nine living, nineteen dead - stood ready for the jump. Beyn looked down at his third cousin, the floating computer core resting peacefully above his dead body, and he privately mourned. "Death is such and ugly thing," he thought. The pulsating rhythm of a transporter atomizing his body was a shock. He closed his eyes at the pain. Interstellar hyperjumps were not for the timid. At the last moment, just before he jumped, he pressed the control module that released the stasis fields on the torpedoes. A moment later, as he and his atomized companions were flying through space at hyperlight speeds, 160 photon torpedoes exploded underneath the Star Fleet Advanced Propulsion Laboratory, and everything within a kilometer was turned to dust. The birds had been freed.


	3. Chapter 2: The War Begins

Jean-Luc stood in front of the class room observing the group of students in front of him. He scanned from left to right, from Pierre to Andrea, but no one had raised their hand. He gently picked the artifact up and walked around the desk. The lecture hall was old, as was the University it resided in, with wooden beams exposed in the ceiling and tiered rows of stationary black chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the desk he now stood in front of. While the hall could seat over 1000, it now only contained these 53 students taking his archaeology class on the antiquities of the ancient Iconian Empire. He raised the artifact up in front of him.

"Surely, someone can identify this," he said in a firmer voice. Silence was his answer. He hesitated for a moment, then looked at Tomas, his prized pupil, and nodded his head slightly to indicate he wanted Tomas to answer. But, confusingly, Tomas just looked down. He took two steps towards Tomas when a voice from the back of the hall stopped him.

"Professor Picard," the voice said. It was a sweet voice, soft and melodic, and barely audible even in this amphitheater.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Can you identify this artifact?"

"Perhaps. May I inspect it more closely?" she asked.

"Yes, of course. Come up front." He turned and placed the artifact on the desk. "Naturally," he said as he turned to the other 52 students, "that is always the correct answer. You should always make a thorough examination of an artifact before making any conclusions." He continued, explaining the ethical considerations of not making rash conclusions. The girl, an Andorian, walked from her seat 13 rows back to the front. She was small, even for an Andorain, and her white hair seemed almost translucent in the yellow light of the hall. She walked up to the desk and, without touching the artifact, began her examination.

The artifact was a Iconian idol of Andromas, the God of Giving. In the center was a face of a smiling man, with four spikes that rose above the face at angles. On the sides of the face were two pillars that ran down to the base. The base was flat and had simple shapes of people looking up at the face. She looked at all of these elements before speaking.

"It is clearly a representation of Andromas," she said. "The overall impression is ninth dynasty. These spikes," she touched the tips of the spikes, "were a common way to represent the Sun. The simple shape of the people and their arrangement," she ran her fingers over the mass of people on the base, "were a common ninth dynasty representation of worshipers. But these canals," she ran her fingers down two canals, one in each pilar, "should represent the aqueducts." She got a puzzled look on her face. "But those weren't built until the fourteenth dynasty."

"Yes, yes" he said, nodding his head repeatedly.

"So it must be older than the fourteenth dynasty." She leaned closer to the base where it contacted the desk. She ran her finger along the bottom, then quickly tipped the artifact back and peered underneath. She looked at him and smiled. "It is nineteenth dynasty."

"And how do you know that?"

"The Master at Antiguan City, in the nineteenth dynasty, used a waterproof lacquer that would seal the bottom of clay structures. This has that lacquer."

"Very astute observations. This is indeed an idol of the God of Giving from the workshop of the Master of Antiguan City." The girl smiled and walked back to her seat, a little brisker this time he thought. He continued to explain the significance of each element in the artifact to the class, his words singing with passion. Soon, he noticed some people packing their bags and looked at the clock. Class was over. He called out to them a final warning about a term project and the nearing deadline. The students walked out quietly, some of them smiled at him as they passed but none stopped to speak with him. He packed his belongings into his case and set the artifact in a compartment on the wall to the left of the desk. He grabbed his things and started to leave, when a face in the doorway made him stop. It was a face he knew.

"Miles O'Brien?" he asked.

"Hello, Sir," Miles said.

"Oh, no, no, no. Not sir, not anymore," he said as he walked forward. They grasped hands. "Just Jean-Luc now."

"Alright, Jean-Luc."

"What brings you to Paris?"

"My son. He is interning at the University this summer. I just left him in a dorm room with some eager looking initiators." He laughed. "It seems he wants to be a musician. Certainly didn't get that from me." He laughed again, then a sadness filled his eyes and he looked down.

"Oh, yes. I am sorry, Miles." He placed his hand on Miles' shoulder. "We would have come to the funeral, you understand, but we didn't hear about it until weeks later."

"Thank you, Sir. Yes, I understand. It was rather sudden for all of us."

There was a long pause. He looked at Miles, the years of burden heavy on his face. The hair was the same brown shade, though it seemed more receded since the last time they had met, and the strong wrinkles that lined his face made him look like a piece of old leather broken in with time. His eyes were the same, however, sharp and bright and clever. He looked strong. He looked determined.

"How's Molly?" Jean-Luc asked, breaking the silence.

"Oh, fine. She graduated Star Fleet Academy about two and a half years ago and, actually, just got promoted to Lieutenant and is now serving on the Potemkin as Flight Controller."

"A fine ship."

"An old ship. But, I suspect she is enjoying it. She always liked a challenge."

"Very much like her father then." They both smiled. "Did you want her to be an engineer?"

Miles laughed. "No. We always wanted her to follow her heart. Even our son, although he confuses me with this music career of his. Another thing from Kieko, I suppose." Again, sadness washed across his face, briefly. "Well, if it makes him happy. Molly though, I think she was destined for Command from birth."

"Yes. I could see that in her." He paused for a moment. "So what did you do after you left the Academy? I heard something about the Daystrum Institute? Is that true?"

Miles looked at him intently. "That is actually what I am here to talk to you about."

"Oh, well, I am not sure I can be much help for you there. I no longer have any influence with Star Fleet Command or the Academy, or really anything in the Federation." There was a sudden pang of anger at that thought, of being an impotent voice in the sea of vox populi. But it quickly passed, and contentment filled him. He was happy with this new life. He enjoyed his teaching very much, he got to spend time with René in the vineyards, and, of course, there was Beverly. He had no regrets. "I know Beverly would love to see you. Why don't you come by for supper tonight. We can talk then. "

"Alright."

"Supper is at 8," he said. "I will open a bottle of '61 and let it breath a little before you get there. Wine is always better if it breathes first."

"I'll take your word for that, Sir. Personally, I'd rather have a good Ale."

"Well, it's not Ale. But '61 was a good year. I think you will like it."

"Very good, then, Sir." Miles stepped aside and they walked into the hall. "By the way, is your home equipped with a transporter modulator?"

"Yes, per Federation orders."

"Oh, well, do you mind turning it off when you get home. My ship uses a low-frequency transporter system and the field created by the modulator confuses the signal. You can turn it back on when I get there, of course, I just don't fancy walking a few miles to get to your house."

"Turning the modulator off will trigger an alarm," he said after a short pause. "Why don't you just use the registered transport?"

"Well, my engine core suffered some thermal radiation damage when we came out of warp too close to the sun this morning. It is nothing, really, but I need to fix it today. I just figured it would be easier to transport from my ship right to your house, is all. I can use the registered transport if you prefer."

"No, not necessarily. I could turn it off, I suppose." They were in the hallway now and Miles glanced up and down the hall. It was empty.

"You know, they only sweep the rural areas once a month. I know, I was part of the team that developed the modulator system for Star Fleet. Nobody will see the alarm."

"Well, I suppose it will be alright." he said. It was just Miles, he thought. And he would turn it on again once Miles arrived. "See you at 8 then."

Jean-Luc walked to the registered transporter in the new wing of the Life Sciences and scanned the embedded chip in his wrist at the station. The Star Fleet officer behind the control panel greeted him politely and ushered him onto the transporter pad before atomizing his body to the pad outside his home in the vineyards of France. It was his brother's house, and his father's before him. It was a good place to live. A good place to die.

He found Beverly sitting in the garden reading a book. The wind stirred and brushed her vibrant red hair back to expose the silhouette of her face. She was so beautiful, and he loved her. Sensing his presence, or hearing his footsteps, she turned to him and smiled. They spoke about Miles, to which she was excited, and together they began preparations for company. Jean-Luc opened a '61 Auxerrois Blanc and took a sip. It's sweet, dry flavor wet his tongue and he said "such a good wine" before placing it on the dining table to breath. At 7:30, he walked to the shed attached to the barn and stood in front of the transporter modulator. Nobody had ever told him what this device did, or why he needed it, but here it was sitting in his shed humming away. It didn't bother him, however, and he seemed happier for it. He tapped some controls on the panel and the device shut down, its radiating blue light dimming until blinking out. The hum was gone. He instantly wanted to turn it back on, and a pain in his head almost forced him, but he returned to the house instead. It had been something Miles said, that made him leave it off. A few minutes later came a knock at his door.

"Welcome," Jean-Luc said as he opened the door. Beverly came over and greeted Miles with a warm hug.

"Oh, Miles. It's so good to see you. I am so sorry about Keiko. I wish we could have been there for you," she said.

"Thank you, Doctor." Miles stepped into the foyer. Two more people stepped in behind him.

"And you brought guests," Beverly said.

"Yes, sorry I didn't mention it before. This is Doctor Julian Bashir," he said pointing to the first man who stepped into the house, "and you know, of course, Captain Ben Maxwell."

"Ben Maxwell?" Jean-Luc stepped back from the man, like a lamb before a lion, as he glided in.

"Hello, Picard," Ben said is a dry tone.

There was a long pause as the two great men stared at one another. Beverly quickly interrupted the silence and announced she would set more places for the new guests. She turned to leave.

"Doctor, stay," Ben said sternly, never taking his eyes off Jean-Luc. "We are not here to eat."

"What are you here to do then?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Talk," Miles said. "Just talk. Please, don't be alarmed. I apologize for not asking you about bringing them but I just couldn't do it under the circumstances. Please, we just want to talk."

Beverly turned once again to leave, mentioning something about dinner, but Ben took a phaser and leveled it in her direction. "If you try to leave, I will kill you," he said. She stopped.

Julian moved around Ben and placed a hand on his arm, briefly, before moving to Beverly. "There is no need for that," he said looking at Ben. He took Beverly by the arm and turned her towards the sitting room. "We are just going to talk."

They moved to the sitting room where Julian led Beverly to a sofa next to the bookcase. Jean-Luc, protectively, moved across the room and sat next to her. Julian and Miles sat in chairs opposite them, but Ben remained standing. Jean-Luc looked at Miles expecting him to talk, but it was Julian who started their conversation.

"Admiral Picard," Julian began, using the antiquated title, "are you aware the Federation is trying to change the Prime Directive?"

"Yes, they have been trying to do that for 10 years. We always were able to defeat them, in council of course. What of it?"

"Well, three weeks ago, at the advice of the Security Council,"

"The Tal Shiar, you mean," Ben said over Julian, almost spitting the words out.

Julian continued, "the Federation Council met in secret and a vote was put forth to modify the parameters of the Prime Directive. It passed. Two weeks from now, at the peace conference on Omicron-5, the Chancellor will reveal this new Prime Directive. During his speech he will describe it as, and I quote, "A directive of the Federation where knowledge and wisdom will not be withheld in vain, but shall be shared with all who wish it, to ensure that the strength of the Federation is never threatened." In short, Admiral, this new directive will give the Federation the ability to give, or sell, advanced technology to worlds who have not yet reached their natural evolutionary levels."

"It's a perversion of the Prime Directive that we spent our lives, and the lives our our men and loved ones, defending, Picard." Ben said. "And you can bet this is the conniving of the Tal Shiar, or the damn Security Council if you want to call them that," he said as he looked at Julian, "and the Ferengi. Mark my words, Picard. This will be the end of the Federation if we don't do something to stop it now."

"How do you all know this?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Someone sympathetic to our position was at this meeting, Admiral. He recorded it and I memorized it before destroying the recording."

"Convenient, then, that it is destroyed, so you cannot offer proof."

"Not at all, Admiral. I have a perfect memory. I am," Julian paused, "genetically engineered. My mind is as good as a computer."

"Better, I'd say," Miles added.

"Be that as it may, you are, Admiral, very important to our plans."

"You see, Sir, there are those in the Federation who oppose this... change. Many, actually. We have banded together and that is where you come in," Miles said.

"And how is that?" Jean-Luc asked rhetorically.

There was a pause, followed by brief glaces between the three of them. Julian spoke. "We propose creating a new Federation Council with new members and new leaders. You, Admiral, were once a high ranking member of the Council. And you will be again, as Chancellor."

"The Chancellor is an elected position, not a granted one," Jean-Luc said.

"Oh, you will be elected, Admiral. Very few people in the Federation don't know the name "Jean-Luc Picard," enemies and friends. Nobody is more respected nor is anyone more capable of leading this revolt."

"No, not a revolt. Not a revolution," Ben said hotly. "They are the traitors, they are the ones who are out. We supplant them as the true Federation and, with you at our head, most of the planets will come to our support. I may not like you, Picard, but a whole lot of other people do. It will happen, I can tell you. No, this is not a revolution. This is a reckoning."

Jean-Luc felt a sharp pain in his head. What they were saying was true. He believed it, and for a long time so. This is what he needed to do, to save the Federation. But it was all wrong. The Federation was strong and it must remain intact for it to remain strong. "No, you are all wrong," he said. "The Federation is doing what is in the best interest of all. This new Prime Directive, if it is even a reality, must have been thought out by the best minds the Federation has. I am sure it is for the best of all."

"Sir," Miles began, "we would like you to come with us. To meet some of the leaders of the group. Some you know, some you don't. Perhaps if you meet them all, see their passion, perhaps it will be easier for you to understand."

"No, no. I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here and you can't make me go. No, no, I won't do it." He sat back on the sofa and extended his left arm over Beverly's lap, protectively. She was shaking. They couldn't make him go, he knew. "You are lucky I don't call some Star Fleet security personnel. There are 200 stationed just down the road. I could do, you know. You had better leave now or I might."

Miles and Julian looked at each other for a long moment. Julian turned back to him. "Admiral," he began, but Ben interrupted him.

"We are wasting our time. Clearly they've been conditioned." Ben stepped in front of Julian and leveled his phaser at Jean-Luc and Beverly. "I'm sorry, Picard," he said, and he fired the phaser.


End file.
